I have a story to tell you about a dead possum...
I never leave my phone in my bedroom cuz like I don't care if someone
dies. Well I care, but if they're dead I could find out when I wake up
and that would probably be better anyway. At least I could sleep.
But I thought this chick might call me. So for the 1st time in years, I brought my phone in my room while I slept last night.
& 8am my phone
starts going berserk. With one eye open, I'm like oh fuck someone died.
Go back to sleep cuz it wasn't the chick so whateverskis. But then
it starts dancing & buzzing again. And it's Jimmy. And he is the
kinda guy where if he calls you at 8am on Memorial Day, you're gonna
have to answer. Cuz it ain't no joke. Or maybe it is. But it's probably
gonna be funny. But when I groggily skeptically answer, he says
Rachel is house sitting at his place and Molson the giant doggie boy had
fielded in a possum to the living room and she's freaking out and
Jimmy's out of town at least an hour away, Can I help? Fuck that
shit. My dance card is full already. For instance, I had to eat food and
play music all day today. There was no margin for error. And then he pulls the "I would do it for you" card. So, still drunk from the night before I made the wise choice to grab a big black trash bag and get this over with. The call came at 8:49am. I was back in my bed at 9:03am. I wonder if the possum was playing possum. And not really dead.
And I also wonder. I am in fact perplexed, if you had a dead animal on
your floor, how far down the list I would be of people to call. Wherever
you think I am. Like probably last. That's probably good. I'll find you
an exterminator or some shit. I got a credit card. He was pretty cute though, that little possum. Don't call me ever again. Ok fine. Call me. But I won't answer. And I'm outta trash bags anyways.